A Photograph's Allegory
by Z-for-caesar
Summary: Slash; Sherlock/John. "The most striking evidence is usually one left behind over strong, emotional cacophonies." John begins to realise just how true Sherlock's words are.


_'Tis my first try at the BBC Sherlock Fandom, so please bear with me if I do not exactly capture their characters. This is the first instalment; it's a two-part story, so there will be a Reichenbach-based sequel. If there are any mistakes, please, do let me know :)._

I don't know if it's due to my recent absence here, but the formatting of stories seem to be quite terrible. I can't seem to put indentations. Maybe its my memory playing tricks on me, but I seem to know a time when that was possible. |:

* * *

**A Photograph's Allegory.**

* * *

"John."

He continues with his tapping against the keys of his laptop, in an attempt to disregard the inevitable fate of caving in to Sherlock's obvious whining.

"John..." Sherlock bellows again, storming from one end of the sitting room to the other, for what seems to John no apparent reason, before finding that _'oh, there's not much to be done here'_ and turning back towards his starting point. John forces his eyes shut in an effort to clear his obvious irritation, before settling his gaze to his computer screen. Sherlock continues storming back and forth in an exaggerated huff and he _really_ needs to focus-

"Jooohn!"

_-right._

"What the bloody hell do you want, Sherlock? You aren't the only one in this bloody forsaken flat who needs to focus, you know?"

His arrogant flat mate stops short in his movements at his outburst, and he regrets looking up from his screen because Sherlock is sporting a terribly smug look on his _arrogant, arrogant _face.

"...what? Now that you have my undivided attention, what do you want, Sherlock? And if it's something along the lines of passing you your phone then I swear to go-" John pauses, seeing the guilty grin playing across his friend's features and his face goes slack.

"I do have to say though, having my phone prior to your creative speech would have been quite fantastic. It is one of your less curse-filled monologues."

John practically steels himself from addressing some more creatively thought out, curse-filled monologues to his flat mate.

"Right."

Sherlock collapses on the sofa with a small sigh, before turning to him expectantly. Asking Sherlock why he was staring would be a rather redundant question for the great Sherlock Holmes of mysteries and incapacities to find his own bloody phone, so John takes the task upon himself when the staring gets a bit too uncomfortable. He finds it in Sherlock's overcoat lying about on the kitchen chair, and walks back into the sitting room with it.

"So, I'm guessing by the content expression on your face and your sudden need for your phone, that you have solved the case?" He asks as he hands over the phone to Sherlock. The brilliant man gives a small smile and pushes the phone back to him.

"Ah yes," he says.

"It was quite an intriguing one at the beginning, but oh so mundane in the end." he sighs. "Once I had a vivid depiction of the murderer's appearance and the intent of the murder itself, the rest was just so bland. The most striking evidence is usually one left behind over strong, emotional cacophonies."

John watches as his friend waves the entire case off, but he doesn't miss how Sherlock's face brightens up as he talks his way into the usual, ground-breaking conclusion. He awkwardly takes the phone that Sherlock is intent on driving through his palms and sits beside him, waiting for the man to grant him the grand reveal.

"Text Lestrade. Tell him that the man in the photograph that was retrieved from the crime scene is the murderer."

* * *

John comes to a complete realization that he cannot afford relationships and Sherlock at the same moment when Sandra breaks up with him.

He is sitting in her living room that morning, both hands gripping a teacup with effort, when she moves from her stunned position against the kitchen wall to sit beside him on the sofa.

"...John," she starts after a well gathered breath "This isn't going to work out."

He manages an awkward upturn of the left side of his lips because he can't do much else. Of course it isn't going to work out. He had just asked her about her practice with her band mates a few minutes ago, and as the words escaped him, he realized he had added a terrible mistake to an already terrible list of mistakes.

Wrong Sandra.

Great.

Splendid.

Absolutely_ fucking _lovely, John Hamish Watson.

So he answers, slightly audibly, 'I know' and listens to her reasons that correspond with those of his other girlfriends he's had since he met Sherlock Holmes. The speech that rambles on intently from the lines of 'not wanting to compete with an overgrown man-boy who can't afford to fend for himself' which he can't help but mentally snigger to in appreciation for its truth, to the more confusing tracks of 'sorting through your feelings before establishing a relationship with anybody else'.

He nods at Sandra in light remorse. Thanks her after she's out of words and he of more than he cares to think about.

Then he takes his leave and is determined to forget the dawning problem which the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes was rapidly bringing upon him.

* * *

That same day, after his break up with the not-rock band-member-but-dentist-Sandra, John finds himself rushing to his flat. Sherlock had sent him text messages that was making John mentally kick himself over for even taking anywhere close to seriously.

Be back at the flat. It's urgent. Emergency.

SH.

Come home.

SH.

Right now, if convenient.

SH.

Or better, come anyway.

SH.

He had sent two texts to ask just exactly the 'emergency' was, to find himself being undeniably ignored. So John half runs and half jogs his way to the flat once he's at Baker Street. He opens the door apprehensively just in case of a _mild mishap_ with Sherlock experiments. The air is clear. Bit good, he thinks.

Then he walks into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock..." John calls once more before heading for the stairs. Just as he makes for the second stair, a dark, tall, familiar figure appears above the stairs.

"Thank goodness you're here, I need to go out right now, but I can't find my pen."

John's very expression drops. His face goes bland. _It couldn't be._

He opens his mouth to ask "...your pen..." but finds his voice won't quite let him. Of course not. Whose voice would allow an answer to such a ridiculous request?

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, realizing he must have done something wrong. According to John. Something wrong according to John.

"...it's my only pen. My jotting pen." he says as thought the words wrapped in it is enough of an explanation, or an apology.

John tries his mouth at speech once more.

_Nothing._

He Shuts it. He finds himself hitting a tide of too many emotions which all involve his fists and Sherlock's face _and he can't be here right now. _So he closes his fists and shuts his eyes. Then he turns around and recedes to the first step and heads out the door.

Sherlock finds that he cannot remember a time a house has ever rattled so excitedly from a door slam.

* * *

It is the fourth day since 'The Pen Incident', as John decides to label it in his mind.

He has been practically ignoring Sherlock's every beck and call. Although he finds that it is almost amusing to watch his flat mate as he shuffles awkwardly while he's about to ask him for something absolutely ridiculous, like "John, the notebook" or "John, turn off the light, it's being a distraction to my focus on this specimen". He finds himself on the edge of breaking into a smile despite his anger, when Sherlock lingers a few feet over the physically established _'silent treatment'_ line, his lips twitching slightly with the intent of apology, and his brows furrowed, and then even more tightened when he can't quite formulate what he feels would pass as an acceptable apology, before he turns around and pretends to be busy.

But, dear as those times are, they aren't enough to stop John from being angry.

As they both sit at the dining room in the morning, silently eating toast and tea opposite each other, John realizes that the problem that lay before him was that he was not quite angry at Sherlock as he was before. As he should have continued to be. But rather, he was absolutely furious at himself for letting Sherlock take so much from him. And even more than that-

-it was just as much his fault as it was Sherlock's.

John scrunches up his face at the thought but straightens it the next second, reaching for his cup of tea. It wouldn't do for Sherlock to see his expression and begin deducing the genesis of it and somehow making himself into the victim here.

"You're angry."

John looks up from his cuppa, his thoughts scattered away from him. He manages a gulp of the liquid before focusing his gaze on Sherlock in disbelief.

"I was beginning to think that the skills of deduction were quite lost on you. Absolutely genius." John spits bitterly.

Sherlock frowns, pursing his lips in disapproval.

"We both know that sarcasm is ill-fitted when it comes to you, John. And yes I know you've been angry. But your expression a minute and fifty one seconds ago tells me that something has rekindled it."

John stares at his flat mate incredulously. He slowly gains a flat expression.

"Sherlock, _don't_." he says a little over a whisper. His deep blue eyes are set in a firm, final expression as he looks past Sherlock.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock says, and his words carrying the air of absolute sincerity; dark grey-green eyes clouded and downcast, his lips twitching in a sense of subtle anxiety. John takes this in and it takes him a very short time to realize just exactly what Sherlock is doing.

He drops his cup of tea abruptly on the table and stands up, taking his dishes and placing them in the sink while Sherlock looks in surprise. Things had certainly not gone accordingly, he thinks.

"John...I just said-"

John halts him with a set glare as he leans against the kitchen sink and the detective's apologetic façade melts too quickly for him to grasp back for it. Not good. And John's blue eyes are still on him, he realizes. They cling to him as though searching for some kind of explanation that Sherlock himself couldn't find to dissolve the problem. He finds it a bit uneasy, having the strength of focus that he's always used in analysing others placed upon him.

Sherlock shifts idly in his chair.

"I heard you perfectly fine, Sherlock. And I know you well enough to be aware that you are not sorry." John says with a long held sigh, pressing his fingers to his nose in a habitual effort to calm himself.

Sherlock parts his lips to utter a protest but the doctor stops him short.

"Or, at least, you don't know what to be sorry for." John finishes, and there is a sort of sadness that seeps into the previously firm, commanding voice.

It leaves Sherlock puzzled because he doesn't know whether he is the reason of such an expression or if it was John himself.

It begins to dawn on him that their argument is more than the problem about him asking for the pen, or the phone, or anything else. It was a bigger emotional issue, by John's tense manner, his withdrawn, distracted look- it was definitely not mundane. And they both knew that Sherlock was the worse of them when it came to such generally trifle matters; which were strangely not so trifle when the matters were linked with John. He manages to remain composed, but stores this revealing information for later investigation.

"Have you ever heard the bit about the boy who cried wolf?" John asks with stealth to his voice, ignoring Sherlock's predictable eye rolling.

"Really, John. I don't think even I could escape such an unbearably reoccurring analogy."

John nods.

"Good. If you do, I believe you'll understand how it applies to you." the doctor says, adjusting his lean against the sink. His eyes never leave Sherlock's for a second.

He needs Sherlock to understand him, to follow along every step he takes with this method. He knows this is the only way of making Sherlock understand that he has to tone down his demands without making it sound too personal, or too uncomfortable. Because to say these words any other way would be compromising, and the last person he would want to find his emotions opened to, especially when he couldn't even dare to figure out its terrifying puzzles, was Sherlock Holmes.

But of course Sherlock always engineered other methods to destroy his very purpose.

"Depends. Am I the wolf or the boy? I'll feel more entitled to being the wolf in any given analogy where there's a helpless human involved." Sherlock half-speaks, half-mutters through a mouthful of cold toast.

John tries to steel himself from breaking away from his track but it becomes too much for him.

"Look, Sherlock. I know it's a big part of you to be this. Demanding and all." John's hands wave vaguely in front of him. He finds he can hardly push down most of what has been brewing in him to say to Sherlock.

_But you're taking it a tad too far. _

_Is it entirely unconscious?_

_Or is it just a clever means to push everybody as far away as possible? _

"But don't you think you can cut it down a bit? You know, the ridiculous dramatics that you place around every request that sends me bolting across from one end of London to the bloody flat,"

"It may not seem of much importance to you, but just think about it for a moment. Try to picture a day when you actually mean it when you send me one of those bloody texts saying its urgent and I ignore you in favour of believing it's just something absolutely ridiculous. Imagine me coming home and finding you-" and John can't help it that his voice breaks at that point.

And it's gotten too personal, too close to the heart of something he can't bear to look at. He's watched his method slowly crumble in Sherlock's hands and instead of picking the fragments to rebuild it, he's trampled over it and turned it to dust.

He catches a glimpse of Sherlock before he looks away. The man has the look of unadulterated amazement, his eyes wide with surprise. There isn't the mixture of scorn and the objective sense of pity-the expected expression Sherlock uses to brush off emotional matters. But even if there was, John knows he couldn't stop.

"You can't expect me to live with that, Sherlock. Knowing that if I didn't choose that very day to brush your text as less than it was, that maybe I could be there to help, or better save you." John finishes and his lips are tightly drawn. The knowledge that he's said too much scratches at his nerves for a second, but he is too frustrated to care about the implications at this point.

Sherlock feels like the wind has been knocked out of him by the shock of John's words. They shouldn't affect him so -especially he, who lived in the world of nothing but the present. But seeing John unravelled before him, worried to a point of unbearable frustration, and knowing that he turned over such levels of possibilities every time Sherlock did or said something so frivolous, hit the detective with something that felt painfully akin to guilt.

And maybe it was guilt itself, an alien feeling settling strangely into his stomach.

"But it's not logical to see things in that sense, John." Sherlock tries, and finds his voice is clearly in the lack for pushing forward a biting remark to put an end to such an unsettling topic.

John lips curl upwards in a smile, but his eyes show no humour.

"Things don't always have to be logical for them to be absolutely possible. It's the one thing you seem to forget too easily."

Sherlock stands up as gracefully as ever, his stride giving the show of the genuinely unaffected, but John watches him as he comes closer to him. And he sees the picture of what true regret looks like on the Sherlock's features.

For a moment, John feels too stunned to look away.

The taller man stops a few inches short from him, his dark grey-green eyes taking their turn to bore into John's blue ones. Sherlock fists his hands at his sides, his eyes closing for just a moment, before he opens them once again. He bends down in a swift motion and presses his lips to John's cheeks. It's a short, soft display that pours out the detective's apology. A sort of insurance in case John mistakes his expression for one of mockery, the doctor realizes.

"I'm sorry." He says once he's upright, his baritone voice taking a rougher edge to its usual sound. It makes John feel a bit unnerved at how affected Sherlock is by this. He wasn't expected such unquestionable sincerity from him. But he also wasn't expecting his own outburst either.

John challenges his breathing to calm despite their close proximity. He can't shake off the feeling that this situation is more intimate than the usual friendship fight-and make up routine, and he shouldn't be seeing Sherlock like this. Let alone being the subject of these displays. It feels too raw, too surreal for his mind; it prickles at his skin and his instincts immediately alight to undertake the choice of _fight or flight._ But he doesn't know what exactly he would be fighting against, or running from. He doesn't even know if it's something to be fighting_ for_. So he ignores his body's signal and focuses on his best friend standing in front of him.

John coughs to make sure he still has his voice and would not crack mid-sentence from the situation, before speaking again.

"It's okay, just try to reserve such theatrics for when I'm actually around to see you and be sure you're alright."

Sherlock nods.

"And keep the demands to a minimum, only when necessary?" John feels like he's stretching the line a bit there, and Sherlock's brows begins to furrow in confusion.

"What exactly does necessary _necessarily_ mean?"

The small doctor gives him a lazy smile. "Well, we can start with this. If I'm not home and the object you're looking for is within the reach of these rooms, and you know exactly where it is, don't ask me to come home to get it. You get it yourself."

Sherlock's brows tighten a bit over the possible degree.

"And if I'm not aware of where this object is?" he asks almost hesitantly.

"If you're not aware then ask me for its whereabouts. And if I don't know, well..." John shrugs. And looks at Sherlock whose eyes shine with the question, 'well?'

"_Well,_ you look for it yourself." John says with a smile hanging loosely around his face.

Sherlock seems shocked by John's suggestion. He huffs at the smaller man, who pats his back in earnest.

"I'm sure you could manage. You're Sherlock_ bloody _Holmes, after all."

"I can make the effort, but you'd undoubtedly need to assist me, if my search results turn up negative." Sherlock says, turning around before John can speak, and heading for the sitting room.

"Is that the possibility of failure that I hear in that sentence, Sherlock?" John calls after him, as he moves away from the kitchen sink to follow the detective.

Sherlock turns, narrowing his gaze at John in a lazy attempt at a glare, as he slumps into the sofa. There's a hint of a smile prickling at the detective's lips that he can't seem to shake off.

"You're trying to make this a challenge because you know I won't refuse one."

John smiles innocently, taking his place on the couch beside Sherlock. "Why ever would I do that, now?"

Sherlock's eyes soften in their gaze on his friend, and his face eases into a small smile. He knows at this point that John would be winning this challenge for however long his demanding impulses lets him play along, because the comfort of their companionship was worth more than a thousand other losses.

* * *

It takes John a full day after his fight with Sherlock to realize that he didn't discuss with Sherlock the issues of him interrupting his dates In person or via texts. He is in the clinic at the moment the thought strikes him. He remembers just as he begins packing his bag a few minutes before the end of the work-day.

He tries to go for anger, then mild annoyance.

When that doesn't work either, he slumps into his office chair in an air of resignation.

How could he have missed such a part that was meant to be extremely important? It was a large part of his life _for god's sake. _He_ should_ be worried. It_ should _be a problem, undoubtedly. After all he wasn't getting any younger, and pursuing flimsy excuses of relationships did not fit in too well with his stage in life. He needed a steady, committed relationship that he could foresee a future with. Something rock-hard that he could count on.

But for some reason, many a time he tried to state the conditions of a steady relationship and establish a mental picture, a certain grey-green eyed, dark curly haired figure crept its way into his mind as an established picturesque painting.

And it took more effort than it really needed to, to shake it off.

It made him wonder...was this what others always saw when he and Sherlock stood together beside each other? This sense of picture perfect... Belonging.

Did Sherlock ever get a glimpse of this too? Or was it was just him going a bit mad?

It had to be, because he wasn't exactly interested in men. And while Sherlock was definitely an attractive younger man in an objective view, beautiful, in fact, John didn't think he could go about thinking of Sherlock in some sort of sexual manner. It just wasn't right, not exactly because it didn't sit well with his understanding of his own orientation, but especially because the man himself claimed to be married to his work.

It was just a fascination that had taken new grounds in his life. It was blurring the otherwise obvious differences between a friendship and a relationship, and confusing the hell out of him. He thinks, that it was to be expected when two individuals involved themselves in practically every given aspect of their lives.

John tips his head back, heaving a sigh. He wonders briefly why he always resisted thinking critically about this problem if he was so sure it was nothing...

But he pushes all thoughts behind him, before standing up, and heading for a fresh start on his train of thoughts. There is a tentative knock on the door. It slowly glides open and John is alight; his expression soft and welcoming and void of any form of worry or frustrations.

A female's voice carries softly through the room.

"Hello, John."

"Oh hello there, Sarah."

* * *

It is almost two weeks after Christmas, and London is damp with the rain. The soft chills find their way crawling through all corners and into 221B Baker Street, from a window open here, and a side of the door cracked there.

John ushers in the same people that he did during Christmas, into their flat once again. There are small smiles on all parties and an awkward hug from Lestrade. Then mildly exasperated expressions when they find that the person they have come for is 'not quite home yet'. He allows Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to settle in comfortably, before heading to look for the betraying corners that was letting in the chilly air.

It is Sherlock's birthday.

And Sherlock of course, is nowhere in sight.

The doctor finds the offending window in Sherlock's room. How he ever expected the man to know that closing his window might be useful was beyond him. And it wasn't exactly as if Sherlock didn't know what every hour of the weather would be like, for each time John asked, he would just roll his eyes and give the most detailed account of the changes of the day.

He closes it, forcing his eyes not to roam about the room in which the brilliant mind sometimes resided, and which the man probably saw almost as many times as John did.

He heads back to the living room, giving Mrs Hudson a glance that says 'I told you this was a bad idea', and the poor lady gives an expression that showed it was at least half of what she expected before moving to engage in a rather interesting chat with Lestrade, who was sitting on their sofa, casually taking a sip from a wineglass.

John pulls out his phone from his pocket.

You do know that it would make sense at this point to come home Right now.

JW.

It wouldn't make sense, actually, for me to attend an event that did not make sense. Except of course, there was something intriguing to hunt for. Like a piece of evidence for a case. Or a delicately preserved set of human toes.

SH.

Sherlock, we prepared this for you. Mrs Hudson is in our flat. And so is Lestrade. And Molly will be here any minute. _And_ I am at home taking the brunt of your absence. This is inexcusable. So come back here, because it's the least you could do.

JW.

You're being impossibly difficult, John.

SH.

Right. Where are you anyway?

JW.

221C. I nicked the keys from Mrs Hudson's coat hangers when I stopped by a few days ago. It's dangerously cold in here; it seems that I will be heading upstairs to the appalling event set on my behalf, after-all.

SH.

I won't ask. But good. Now run here, you insufferably ungrateful git.

JW.

It appears that Sherlock does exactly as he is told, because before John is able to finish explaining to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade that Sherlock will in fact, be over soon, the man himself walks through the door a bit less gracefully than John's usually seen.

Mrs Hudson has a bit of a shock as he prances in barely suppressing a mild shiver, but she quickly eases into a smile.

"Oh dear! Happy birthday, my boy!" She cries happily, ushering him in. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, letting the small tug of a smile affect his features. She hugs him and Sherlock's hands are stiff and awkward at his sides, and John and Lestrade laugh at the sight while the consulting detective tries to give a million reasons as to why celebrating a birthday was utterly ludicrous.

John feels like he's had the best two weeks of his life, albeit the frustrations of luring Sherlock out of his hiding hole taking him backwards a bit. Everything is still very good. He thinks this feels sort of like family; gathering to celebrate Christmas, and birthdays. It is endearing and it is comfortable in a sense, that his and Sherlock's flat can encompass such warmth.

His and Sherlock's ...

There is a timid knock on the door and Mrs Hudson goes to get it. Sherlock, finally relieved of the landlady's hold, gives Lestrade a courteous handshake and sits next to John.

"I'll never forgive you for this." The dark haired man whispers into John's ear.

John grins earnestly. "I know. It's exactly why I let Mrs Hudson do it."

Molly walks in shyly.

It's of no surprise that she comes through the door, even though they aren't exactly expecting anyone else. The young woman's knock tells almost all about her personality. She gives greetings to everyone and smiles at Sherlock, saying a breathy 'Happy birthday, Sherlock', to which the consulting detective carefully replies his thanks.

None of them would want an encore of the Christmas gathering, of course. And especially not John, who has an elbow grinding into Sherlock's ribs immediately Molly parts her lips to speak.

An hour and a few drinks later-a few too many drinks for some- everything is quite merry. Mrs Hudson is singing a particularly off-key rendition of the _'Happy birthday song'_ with the TV controller to her lips, which others follow in a slur of words. Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson give their presents to Sherlock, who thanks them and hands them to John. John in turn hands the gifts to the unstable fortunes of the 221B floors.

The cake is split and shared, and the consulting detective seems finally content with having a birthday gathering.

Sherlock is sitting on the table, facing John directly with a plateful of cake in his hand. John holds his cake-filled fork mid-air, unable to quite put it down or shove it in his mouth because he is laughing heartily at something Sherlock said not too many seconds ago. He can't quite pinpoint the genesis of it because he is a tad drunk and so is Sherlock.

And that in itself is beyond amusing.

"Sherlock that has got to be the worst damn thing you could possibly say about a woman of such...such _status!_" John says through his lengthy giggles, leaning in towards Sherlock, because the man seems to have a fixation for talking quite low when he's under the influence.

Sherlock smiles, and it's unguarded and has a bit of a lopsided look to it, and John can't help but find it the damned most endearing thing he's ever seen. He feels like he can admit that much whether he is intoxicated or not.

"And yet, here I am saying it. And here you are, the golden man of all that is virtuous, laughing the winds out of yourself!" he says dramatically, his arms flailing without purposeful direction, before his voice falls in to an almost whisper. His hand comes to rest on John's knee. It all feels natural, especially with the tension of self-awareness washed away with the drink.

John tries to stifle a laugh, and is about to make a remark, when he notices a flash. He and Sherlock turn simultaneously to find the source and see they are staring wide-eyed at Molly.

Molly, who is staring back at them, with pain flooding her features as she turns her gaze back to the camera. The very brief, uncomfortable silence is broken by the sound of her sobbing.

Sherlock gives him a passing glance, and slowly withdraws his hands, and John feels a short sense of loss when the contact completely ceases.

Lestrade finds he is in a rather uneasy position, utterly perplexed but unwilling to ask just _what the hell_ is going on.

Mrs Hudson is already offering as much motherly comfort as she can afford to Molly and John can swear that he hears the intoxicated, sobbing lady say _'...so beautiful together. It's painful...should have...same with_ _him_' which he tries to steel his mind from processing.

His curiosity makes the first run.

It wins, of course.

He cautiously leaves his seat, and strides towards the table where Mrs Hudson had dropped the camera.

Pretty much everyone's attention is on Molly at this point, Lestrade is walking Molly to the sofa to sit, and Mrs Hudson heads for the kitchen to make a cuppa for her. Sherlock's every senses, however, are focused on John from where he sits. And the doctor can feel it practically prickling at his skin.

John thinks to stop, and say curiosity be damned; to turn around and say something soothing to Molly; or to turn Sherlock's attention away from him because John knows that once he finds this picture, whatever interpretation he gets from it would be read by Sherlock instantly. He shrugs the foreboding sensation hanging against his skin and picks up Molly's camera from the table. He puts the last picture on display and at first there is nothing exactly to see. It is just him and Sherlock sitting, and having a conversation.

Then he takes a better aim at observing and finds an idea of what Molly had seen.

If he and Sherlock were replaced by any other persons, he would have concluded right away, based on the body language; on everything altogether, that the individuals in the picture were lovers, or at least, in love. An embarrassing flush comes over John's face and crawls to the tip of his ears at that knowledge, and he stares open-eyed at the photograph once again.

He finds that there is the whole leaning in thing going on; his forehead is practically brushing Sherlock's dark curls. Their knees are brushed against each other's from where they sit, and Sherlock's hand is placed on John's knee in an almost delicate manner. And it looks just as if they had tuned out the entire world, and the only existence worth paying attention to was the other's.

John tenses, and slowly drops the camera back in place.

He feels as if he had just looked at something he_ really_ wasn't meant to. He turns around and Sherlock's eyes are still on him, roaming about his every feature and following his movement. The detective's eyes finally rise to hold his, and he finds it really hard not to look away...especially with the thoughts that just ran through his mind with that picture.

But then Sherlock eases gracefully into a small smile, and his eyes linger for a few moments more before he looks away sharply.

John stands, transfixed.

What?

_Did Sherlock already know about this?_

_And was that smile a challenge?_

He gathers himself together quickly, remembering that he has guests over. Molly, however, appears to be standing up, ready to leave. He hears Lestrade insist on taking her home.

And then things end up a bit more downhill from there. Practically everyone is gone in the next twenty minutes save Mrs Hudson, who meekly wishes Sherlock a happy birthday once again, before leaving for her rooms.

* * *

John and Sherlock are left in the flat. The taller man is slouched on the sofa, while John inhabits the arm-chair. The sobered doctor tries for a light-hearted take on the situation.

"Well, that didn't go as great as I planned. The drama still makes for memorable day, though." John says, trying not to wince.

Sherlock lazily rolls to his side, facing John.

"Memorable to you, unfortunately. I plan to delete it."

The doctor's expression heightens in exasperation. "What? Everything!?"

John cannot help the disappointment that seeps into his words. He had thought that Sherlock was at least having a not-terrible time before the whole Molly incident happened.

He realizes that Sherlock is looking at him, really looking at him in that suave, analytical manner of his. Although the harsh look of the distant observer is not there. It seems as if Sherlock is observing him just for the sake of the moment, and not as a catalogue to look back on in the future or anything of the sort. John flushes a bit under the intensity of it all as he watches Sherlock take every detail of him in.

Sherlock's eyes finally lock back on his. "Not everything. I meant just the bit about Molly bursting into a tormenting shriek. It's quite nauseating to have it replay in your head. Over, and _over_." he says in a drawling manner.

John knows it shouldn't be funny, especially since the reason the poor lady was crying was because of them or what she seemed to see in them- something he now saw. But he can't help it, and he's covering his lips once again with one hand and clutching his stomach with the other. And one part of his brain is thinking that he's probably gone abject mad. Sherlock is looking at him incredulously, as though he's suddenly got horns on his head when he begins to unravel his hysterics and he doesn't care. He doesn't bloody care because he can see the beginnings of the same madness dancing on Sherlock's lips too.

"Shrieking?! You absolute bastard! That's..._totally untrue,_ the poor girl." John says, reaching for a cushion pillow discarded on the floor and throwing it at Sherlock, who is also laughing at this point.

Their laugh fills the room, before slowly boiling down to mild chuckles and then a small silence.

John breaks it in favour of a little reveal.

"I bought you a present too, you know." he says, standing from the arm-chair and reaching into his trouser pocket.

Sherlock looks up at him in surprise and sits up a bit too eagerly, which makes John chuckle a bit before sitting next to the man and facing him. Sherlock huffs at him, showering him with a glare.

He holds the small, rectangular box in his hand, right in Sherlock's reach. "Happy birthday."

Sherlock feigns exasperation but there is a look of endearment on his features as he speaks.

"I suppose I should adorn your words with a _'Thank you'_".

It is John's turn to roll his eyes fondly. The smaller man sighs.

"It's nothing exactly big or out there...just..."

"It is something practical, but with a coat of thought to it. You're the embodiment of practicality." The consulting detective takes the box from John, who looks at him in bewilderment. He doesn't know whether to take that definition as a compliment or an insult to his person. So he keeps his expression guarded when Sherlock looks at him again.

The consulting detective's eyes take on a serious glint.

"It's a good thing. It's a trait that I admire in you as much as I do many others." He says, and John's smile pours into his face before he can push it back. It was hard not to mentally throw fireworks whenever Sherlock throws a compliment at him that was honest.

Especially one such as that.

He watches Sherlock open the box. The detective's eyes widen as he parts opens the box.

"It's the pen! How did you find it?" Sherlock says, and there is a thrill of disbelief rumbling through his voice as he speaks.

The doctor smiles sheepishly, raising a hand to scratch at his neck.

"Um, it's actually a new one. When you lost the other, you kept looking for it for days on end, which you never do for anything that is not tied to a case. So I figured that it must have been something of importance. I remembered the brand name and such, so I gave it a go for some time now. Just a gut feeling, you know." John shrugs, trying for indifference and failing miserably. His nerves are jittery and firing in all corners, and it makes him wonder why he practically craves for Sherlock's acceptance of his present.

"How very observant," Sherlock says and there is a look on his face that has a touch of self-pride in his influence over his best friend. John is about to roll his eyes at Sherlock's obvious gloating, but the consulting detective continues.

"It is absolutely thoughtful of you, John. I can see now that it's a replica- it's free from the wears of the hand. And some very defining scratches that the previous one had."

John nods.

"It is of significant importance, the pen. It was given to me by my father. The brand itself was a successful business that my family ran in the late nineteenth century and the replicas are quite rare. Thank you." Sherlock says with liquid honesty and his eyes are on John again.

The army doctor gulps and replies. "It's no problem. Never knew your family ran that sort of business. How come it says Winchester instead of Holmes?" he asks, and clasps against his knees to keep him from doing something dangerous. He knows exactly what this is now.

Faced with Sherlock so close before him in such a manner for this long, it is impossible to look away from. A small smile spreads on his lips at the thought. Sherlock always possessed a way of being an anomaly to him in almost all aspects. Of course conquering John's well-constructed idea of heterosexuality just needed to be one of those things Sherlock could take from him, no matter how skilfully John tried to circle around it.

"Great-grandmother was the last Winchester before marrying a Holmes. The name lost its standing from then." Sherlock says smoothly, but it is distant, like a disconnected part of him engaging in conversation.

The grey-green eyes that are focused intently on him take a darker look to them now, and John feels a small amount of courage that maybe it isn't only him after all.

"I see." John says a little over a whisper, and his blue eyes settle on Sherlock's for a few seconds, before stealing a glance at the dark haired man's cupid bow lips purposefully. If John did understand Sherlock before everyone left, he did ask for a challenge, after all.

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly in realization and his lips part.

"John..."

He moves in towards Sherlock, gauging his expression to be sure he's reading everything right. Then Sherlock licks the bottom of his lips as if in subtle anticipation and his eyelids slowly slide shut. It is all the invitation Sherlock needs to make in order for John to accept.

And does John ever accept willingly.

Their lips meet, and John is almost shocked to stillness by the softness of Sherlock's lips. Where the brilliant man was all bones and sharp cuts and edges, having this soft part of him just seemed to be a direct balance of his beautiful features.

John eases away from the short kiss and they look at each other. There's an expectant but rather shy look on Sherlock's face as they press their foreheads together, taking in each other's air.

John realizes that this is what he wants above all else.

_ This._

He smiles and reaches with his hands to rake his fingers through Sherlock's hair and he keeps them there, buried in the warmth of the brilliant man's dark locks.

"What is it?" the consulting detective rasps through his elevated breathing, regarding the foolish smile on John's face with raised eyebrows. The doctor shakes his head but his smile remains, ever so bright across his face.

He finds he can't quite help it, anyway.

Sherlock's hands leave its balled up position on the sofa to map around John's face; his sandy brown eyebrows, which he always counted on to speak for most of what the puzzling man kept silent. His fingers skim over John's eyelids as they flutter close to allow Sherlock's little inspection. They reach his lips and Sherlock traces his right thumb over John's lower lip slowly.

John gives a pleasured sigh and the sensation reverberates softly against Sherlock's thumb. The consulting detective inhales in a rush, before repeating the motion.

"The sensations you leave with me when I do this," Sherlock speaks softly, trailing both sets of fingers down on either side of John's face to cup his jaw in his hands.

"It's fascinating; most terrifying. And yet..."

John's hands leave their nest in Sherlock dark curls to rest them in between the space their legs make. He can't quite concentrate on anything else but this moment, with those fascinating eyes locked on him.

This time Sherlock pulls him into a less than chaste replay of their first kiss. It is a slow, toe curling, rhythmic pattern of lips, and it all manages to be perfect.

They struggle to have their lips apart from each other, flushed with a mixture of want and restraint. Sherlock traces his hands back from the chin of his lover to carelessly card his fingers through the desert brown hair. The doctor relaxes easily into the touch.

He gives John a brief kiss on the lips, and retreats to his position.

"I think I might get quite addicted to this." Sherlock says, and John is feeling a bit more blessed to see the endearing smile on the brilliant man once again.

John tries to gather enough words to encompass his feelings, but it's all a bit overwhelming, so much to take in at once. So he settles for a very honest reply to Sherlock's words.

"And I think I'll manage to be the worse of the both of us."

* * *

**Thanks for reading. :). Feel free to review!**


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